Chapter Text
XVI
“What does my queen wish for then?” Vessel asked, looking at you with dare in his facial expression and a mischievous glint in his eyes.
With a little thinking and hesitation, you finally gave out:
“I wanna know you all even better. I know, it will come with time… But now, I wanna be a part of a scene with all of you… As a voyeur. I have won seven points. Let it happen on the 7th of August."
____________________________________
That’s probably it. That ‘three-facts’ game ended like it was never happening and the fact that you actually won it, with some time didn't really matter…even for you. Everyone just got back to their rooms and parted ways, still being under one roof. Locked up each in their own brain and social circles. Days passed, the four men you lived with were constantly busy with something. And that was it. It was their new reality.
It seemed like everyone just forgot about the ‘promised’ scene, the ‘planned scene’. Even you. To be fair, it wasn’t so important; what actually mattered were your feelings towards each of them that were constantly shifting under the conditions of your own life and moods. Now, other things bothered your rock-star’s heads. Other things bothered you as well.
They were all tense, focused on work and in a sheer anticipation of something truly BIG upcoming for the band. And you… You were just suffering some consequences of your previous life choices. And the consequences of swallowing keys.
You missed them, despite being constantly around them.
From time to time you called your mother, or got a call from her. You’ve been in London for months now, which made her overwhelmingly concerned. Needless to say that you couldn’t really tell her everything. You remembered the first time, when you told her that you are going to travel abroad to meet your… boyfriend from London in the middle. In the middle of Europe. On the neutral ground, somewhere where everything seemed weightless and unreal.
She was concerned every time you traveled to see him, though. The idea of meeting a musician of your favorite band in the festival hadn’t ever sat well with her. In her world it was something like old-school groupie stuff: sex, drugs and rock’n’roll. It was kind of true, but in a different way, which was so hard to explain, especially to your own mother.
You always nervously chuckled to yourself, remembering that you actually hid a lot from her. She knew only about your boyfriend, Vessel. She knew his real name, – not even surname, – and of course, you never told her there were four vessels though; what you also didn’t bother to mention is that your man was living with his bandmates, as well as hiding that YOU were living with them too. One girl and four men in one house. Whose mother would be happy?
For mom, the story was as follows: you met a singer of the band at the festival, had been in distant relationships with him for some months, then… He invited you to London, provided you with a visa, travelling expenses and everything necessary, and – you relocated and lived with him only. No name of a band (she knew they were anonymous though), no details of your private life. Only a phone call from time to time, while you were sitting in the quiet room, so no sounds could make mom even more concerned. Total secrecy of this all.
“Hun… Tell me, you’re going out at least? Do you have any new friends there?” That was a common question, as she knew that you didn’t currently work or have any real social life.
“Hmmm, why is it so quiet there? Is he a musician or librarian? No music ever heard…” Another question that always bothered her, as she felt like the atmosphere of the house appeared lifeless to her.
“Yeah, mom, he’s actually both. Also mad scientist.” You thought at times.
“Aren’t you kidnapped and kept there against your will?”
"That was obviously a joke, I get it, but kind of concerning, mom.” You always thought.
And finally. “Where is he? Oh… working? Oh, I see, I see, in the studio. Aren’t you lonely there? Will he take you on tour with you?”
"Oh, mom, how I wish I would know it myself…” You thought.
Mom imagined you were kept as a bird in a golden cage. She wasn’t exactly right, but the bit of truth was there as well. There was another thing mom didn’t yet know. You didn’t only have no social life, you’ve already lost all your friends, who were back there in your homeland. The reason? Secrets, jealousy, distance.
You weren't offended – you understood. Not many friendships can survive the secrets between two mates. You were now full of other people’s secrets – too full of too many swallowed keys. You couldn’t share anything: where you lived, why you went to London, whom exactly you were dating, what’s his name, what was your daily life? Your friends knew as much as your mother knew. YOU DATED A MUSICIAN. That’s all.
You got yourself thinking that if your friend suddenly relocated to another country not even sharing a breadcrumb, it would hurt you. For you, probably, it would mean the end of friendship, because it was a literal shield that killed trust. You can’t just share every intimate detail of your life with someone and then accidentally hide even the name of your man.
You can’t just go from the fear of getting pregnant from your abusive ex, spending ours on the couch with some wine and supportive talk, to casually discussing the London weather, cuisine and shopping over a phone.
This even looked like starstruckism. Unhealthy detachment from people of your circle. Like someone who moved to the capital from a tiny village and, somehow, just stepped into a new reality, becoming someone else, and leaving everything and everyone behind. Even if this wasn’t true! Even if these weren't your own secrets… You guessed, for your friends it felt this way. You changed.
Only one old friend from your childhood was still there, Tati, but even her phone calls were rare. For now, she still endured impersonal talk about the London weather, cuisine and shopping.
In just some months you simply disappeared from your social circle, as well as your social media. Earlier you were posting a lot of stuff every day, now your socials are filled with old photos, old memories; looking like someone’s, who just died, and left the account the way it was at the last minute.
The obvious fact was that no one prohibited you using your socials the way you wanted. Even III, who was bound by contact and anonymity, was more active on socials than you. For some reason, though… You were still stuck in the moment – frozen in time. You just couldn't adjust yourself, you couldn't fit into the new world. Yet.
Nights in the house stretched out like static. You’d lie awake, hearing faint footsteps across the hallway — IVy pacing while humming through half-finished melodies, II’s muffled laughter on a call, Vessel’s door creaking at odd hours. III’s bassline slipped through the walls sometimes, low and constant, like a pulse you could almost fall asleep to.
You weren’t supposed to feel this detached, yet you did. Some mornings you’d wake up early enough to catch them leaving — coffee mugs still steaming. They’d throw quick glances, half-smiles. Vessel would murmur something soft, always just out of reach.
Sometimes you’d find yourself wandering through the living room where their things still lingered — half-written lyrics on the table, picks scattered between empty cans of Monster and half-burnt candles. Every trace of them was both comfort and reminder of distance.
You used to think you understood them — those strange, secretive men, all orbiting around the same unseen core. Now, they seemed like planets whose gravity you’d slipped out of, floating nearby but never close enough to touch.
It wasn’t even loneliness, exactly. It was the slow realization that maybe you were never meant to exist fully inside their world — only along its edges, in the quiet spaces between the rehearsals and the studio nights.
At times, out of habit you checked your phone, opened a message-thread with Ivy, but since he last texted you, there was nothing more. No little sneaky texts, no invitations to the garage. He just kept staring at you with watery heavy-lidded eyes across the table during breakfasts, chewing slowly, his jaw tensing, but he kept looking, till you wouldn’t break the eye-contact yourself. This was noticed by everyone, but no one bothered to comment.
You knew that Ivy held the distance only because of III. Not even like that. Not because of III, but because of your words. He just stalled. It seems like your story with Ivy was paused and frozen.
“You didn’t answer… You don’t wanna be… like… together?” He asked.
“I can’t, Ivy. Not until you talk to III, and obviously not until he’ll accept it. I can’t, if he won’t…”
You remembered that Ivy bought you a dress, meant for your date with him. But it seemed to be also postponed to an unknown date, as well as the promised scene. Earlier Ivy seemed more heated, more impatient to force things between you; now he wasn’t even cold, he just stopped.
“Caught in time like clockwork beneath the permafrost.” Vessel’s lyric looped in your head, a truth you were living now. Every movement felt delayed, muffled by invisible ice — even thoughts took effort to thaw.
You remembered one night when boredom pressed too heavy against your ribs, and you reached for the dress. The black one with beautiful buttons. You didn’t even know why you put it on — maybe you just wanted to feel something.
The fabric slipped over your shoulders like a memory, fitting perfectly in all the places your confidence didn’t. You walked out into the living room, slow and careless, letting the cloth brush your thighs. Vessel was there, sitting on the sofa, a half-empty mug in his hand. His eyes flicked up and froze — not even a word left his mouth, just a side-eye at his guitarist. Ivy was there, shook, jaw dropped, eyes tearing up, but no words slipped out of his mouth. Just that silent, breathless stare that burned hot enough to melt the frost, for a second. His chest raised and fell hard, as his breathing hitched. You didn’t stay long. Just enough to remind both of them that you could still shatter peace if you wanted to.
But Ivy never talked to III — or maybe he did, and nothing changed. III seemed indifferent, detached in his usual quiet way, but you knew him well enough to recognize avoidance when you saw it. He didn’t care to interfere, yet somehow his silence was a wall neither of you could climb.
Now, everything between you and Ivy was paused — frozen mid-breath. He didn’t flirt anymore, didn’t tease, didn’t touch. He still looked at you sometimes like he wanted to say something, but he never did.
The dress still hung in your wardrobe, smelling faintly of his cologne from that day he handed it to you. And every time your eyes fell on it, you felt that same lyric echo through your chest again, low and aching:
“Caught in time like clockwork beneath the permafrost.”
That’s what you all were now. Frozen stories.
____________________________________
Nevertheless, there were also some moments of cheer, some moments of genuine connection with each of them, of light flirting and stolen gazes… One quiet evening the faint orange glow from the back porch light barely touched the garden. You’d gone out to get some air — or maybe just to escape the thick quiet of the house — when you caught the faint scratch of a lighter between the garage and the old shed.
At first, it was just a spark, then the warm tip of a cigarette flaring in the dark. You recognized the silhouette instantly — the tiny a bit muscular figure, tattoos, the familiar blonde hair, and the sound of a quiet exhale.
“Seriously?” you whispered, stepping closer. “Didn’t know you still smoke, II.”
He flinched and turned his head, exhaling sharply through his nose. “Bloody hell — you scared me.” His voice was low, defensive. “Keep it down, yeah? Vessel would kill me if he found out.”
You crossed your arms, smirking a little. “He’s got the smell of a dog.”
“Don’t start.” He looked down at the cigarette, lips quivering. “It’s just one. Helps me think.”
You tilted your head, taking a few steps closer until you could smell the smoke — sharp, bitter, but not unpleasant in the cool air. “Think about what?”
He shrugged. “Everything. Recording. The tour. Him.”
You leaned against the shed, the wood cold against your back. “Can I have one?”
He hesitated, then handed you the pack and lighter without a word. You lit it, the flame briefly illuminating his face — soft under the shadow of worry. For a moment, neither of you spoke. Just the faint hiss of wind, the flick of ash, the syncopated rhythm of your breaths.
Then he sighed. “I keep pretending it’s all fine. That I’m ready. But when we start playing… it’s like something’s chewing me up inside.”
He glanced at you sideways. “You ever get that?”
You nodded, smoke curling from your lips. “Like you’re doing what you love, and live the life you dreamed to live, but it’s… draining you anyway.”
“Yeah.” He smiled faintly. “Exactly that.”
Silence again — comfortable this time. A secret kind of peace shared between two people who knew too much about pressure and not enough about calm. Then you heard the faint creak of a window upstairs — a familiar silhouette moving past. Both of you froze.
“Shit,” II muttered, crushing his cigarette under his shoe. “He’s gonna smell it.”
You snuffed yours quickly, flicking it into the damp grass. “You think he’ll really be mad?”
He shook his head, hesitant. “He’ll just… look at me like I disappointed him. Which is worse, honestly.”
You laughed softly, brushing your hands on your jeans. “Then we’ll both take the blame.”
He huffed a quiet laugh. “Deal.”
And as the two of you slipped quietly back inside, the faint smell of smoke followed — the kind that lingered not really on clothes, but in memory.
A small, shared rebellion against the weight of being perfect.
____________________________________
The other day… constantly spiralling about Ivy and the perspective of something developing between you and him, you thought of ways to push him to make it all right with III. Yeah, it was selfish, as if you played with your dolls in your childhood; everything was according to your script; you just took two of them, pressed them — facing each other — with the canon tone of a priest spelled: and ‘now kiss’.
So, if Ivy didn’t want to talk to III, you decided to get into Ivy’s heart through III’s. Not to seduce, of course, but explore, slowly predatory making your way closer to him. You hoped he won’t argue or have something against you. Maybe if he’ll like you a lot — really a lot — maybe he’ll be not against anything you saw in your dreams with Ivy.
“Hey, III! Errrm… Do you remember I promised you to dye your hair? Fancy a little grooming session?” You asked seemingly carelessly.
“Wha’ tha’ sudden attention? ‘ss do it then…” He chewed on a long jelly worm, thoughtful. His hair was a mess. Pretty much as always. “C’me on. Lessgo’ to my room, I ‘ave everythin’ necessary there.”
He led you to his space, and you silently followed him, through the long corridor, looking at his back and wondering how his head managed to avoid bumping the ceiling lamps. His slim shoulder blades were gracefully moving under his blue “Fit for an autopsy” band T-shirt with written in red letters list of cities of their tour on the back side. You were reading the cities and dates, while following him, saying nothing.
This time his room looked tidy. Every little thing was in its place, his bed was made, one of his bass guitars lying on it, though, the monitor was on the desk, where it had to be, along with his big headphones, mouse and keyboard. He approached one of his desk drawers, rummaged there, mumbling something and taking out a plastic bowl, little black brush, and a box with dye and oxydant of ‘sparkling blonde’ (really?), a big hair brush, a thin scallop and a pack of napkins.
“I need a stool… For you.” You added, while watching him prepare all these things and putting them on the table. No wonder this man had one folding camp stool in his room. You guessed: “What else?” Your brows lifted, when he took it from behind his desk.
“Wha’? Sometimes I visit… festivals, ya know?” He explained.
“Okay, okay, this man has hobbies and leaves the house, sometimes even touches grass, while music is on.”
“Abso-fuckin’-lutely!” He nodded, hiding a little smile under his moustache.
“Well, so… Sit down, please, then!” You commanded still kinda slyly, calling his real name this time, and he sat in no time like a good boy, pressing his palms to each other and holding them between his slim thighs, as he sat.
“So, you want it…SPARKLING blonde, I see…” You said the obvious fact, and he nodded, adding: “Yeah, ‘m tired of this yellowish dirte-y shade.”
“Hmmm, well, you’ll need a toner then… And a good hair conditioner.”
“Oi, right! I’ll bring the tonah!” And he jumped back from the stool and vanished for a few seconds, running back with a tube of purple toner he took from their shared with Ivy bathroom.
“Alright! Sit and relax.” You instructed, then: “Hey, and turn on something. Uhhmm, this band… this one that’s on your T-shirt.” You asked softly.
“Oi, ya don’t know them? Fuuuck, Joe is ma’ buddy, I’ll show ya, you’ll luv them!” He took the phone out of his pocket, and searched for the songs. You took the hair brush and started brushing his messy dishevelled hair, which appeared to be harder than you thought. He winced a little, but was patient, while typing on his phone screen.
“Who’s Joe?” You asked.
“The vocalist!” III started, switching on the speaker, and the sound of bluetooth connecting his phone to it filled the room. “I promise you’ll luv this one. This one is bangah. Absolute bangah!” You’ve peered at his screen and saw the song name “A higher level of hate”. You heard the sounds of strangely produced drums, and then a soul crashing guitar riff, which made your teeth and gums hurt in a good way. You remembered how Vessel used to call this syndrome “the musical teeth explosion” and chuckled. You instantly pulled a stank face and started to headbang slightly, reaching for the hair dye and the plastic bowl. III looked at your face attentively from beneath where he sat, checking on your reaction.
“Now we can work!” You announced, moving your hips and head slightly to the music and stirring the paint mixed with the oxydant in a bowl. “The guitar riff is insane!”
“Are ya aftah’ guitarists?” III asked, asking you curiously.
“You need to know everything…” You rolled your eyes, applying the first little scoop of the dye right on the place, where his hair parted into two.
“Well, yeah… I’m after guitarists. But I… I played drums myself, long ago.”
“Excuse meh’?” His blue eyes under long lashes became big and round; a consideration, then a hint of interest. “So you’re a musician too?”
“I am not…” You sighed. “Just played a little.”
He looked at you differently now. “Uhh-hum… A drummer girl who is aftah’ guitarists… and Sugah-butts.”
You blushed heavily and avoided the intense eye-contact. And it was intense indeed. His face was on the level of your stomach, while you were standing right in front of him, dyeing his hair, and he eyed you, not averting the gaze from beneath even at slightest.
“They’ll be the death of me…” You thought. “Don’t look at me like that!”
“I am tha’ guitarist too.” He said this ridiculously obvious fact with a shit-eating grin.
“Thanks for clarifying the things for me, III.” You chuckled, trying to stay nonchalant, as your wrist worked with the brush on his hair strands.
You turned away from him, taking a scallop from the table to untangle his hair, and immediately felt his gaze on your backside.
“Did you really check on my ass?!” You exclaimed.
“Well, I’m a man in the end ov’ it all…” He confirmed. “Plus, I was wonderin’ what’s on the menu for IV”. You admitted that you never heard him calling Ivy this formal.
“Do you really want to talk about it… with me?” You asked, slightly irritated, but not surprised.
“Nah… Not really…” He sighed and trashed a little on a stool, shaking his head.
“III, can you please not move all the time?”
“Sorr’ey, that’s my ADHD hittin’... Uhhh, by tha’ way, how do ya fin’ this track?”
“It’s actually a very cool band. I think… III, what the…” You were interrupted by his long pale fingers right on your chest, where you’ve got a little necklace. It was a moon stone shaped like a water droplet. “...hell. What the hell?”
“I was jus’ curious what was there…” He shrugged innocently, blatantly staring at your tits now.
“Oh, it means nothing, III…” You grabbed one side of his head and tried to bend his neck to let you paint his temple. He obeyed all your movements, but kept staring at whatever his eyes could reach on you, with that stupid smile, where his front teeth were topping the lower lip, making him look like a cartoonish rabbit.
"You’re a cute bastard, at the end of it all…” You thought to yourself and chuckled.
“Hmmm… How’d ya…” He coughed, nearly making you drop the bowl with a dye. “So…‘have you been jealous of seeing Vess with meh?” He asked in a raspy voice.
“My goodness, his questions won’t ever exceed…”
“To be honest, I found that scene very hot.”
“Were you jealous?” He pressed again.
“III, is this necessary to talk about this?”
He went silent, but kept looking at you with that gaze of his. You knew exactly something was up in his head. Maybe a lot of things at the same moment, but he was definitely plotting something.
“Are you jealous?” You hit him with a boomerang question. He didn’t answer either and just snorted. You walked around him and now stood behind his back, slightly pushing his head forward, while dyeing the back side of his head. He had a long, very long neck… You’ve seen a part of his back beneath the hem of his T-shirt, his little moles here and there. He smelled of washing conditioner, shower gel, of weed and home. Not like II and Ivy, who always wore cologne. One of your hands landed on the back of his neck, while the other was using a brush on his quite long hair. He hissed. “Woaah, cold hands!”
“I’m sorry, doll…” You said, secretly questioning your life choices.
“Why did you even touch him like that… there?”
“Doll?” He asked, amused. “Next time I’ll go to anotha’ barbah’...”
“Oh, really?” You asked a little offended.
“Jokes aside, but I’ve got a nice one. Met on tha’ festival. Cool dude. I wanna change ma’ hairdo, anyways, before tha’ tour.”
“What colour? Fingers crossed – red again!” You snapped.
“Nah… I want it ta’ be sparklin’ blonde, white like a fuckin’ Targaryen, or Malfoy, but short. Much shortah, you know?” He turned his head to you, looking cheerful like a kid.
“Wow, III, I can’t even imagine you with short hair for now! But, my guy, I’m quite sure, the crowd will cheer like never before, when you first appear on stage. I can imagine the shock… The one and only member of Sleep Token showing his hair and now he's a bloody Slytherin student or some shit…”
“Thank ya, darlin’…”
You snorted, and finishing working with his nape, you came back to standing in front of him, readjusting the length of his hair up high to dye the hair tips. “So, this is my first and last experience as your hairdresser, right?” You chuckled.
“Yep, sadly…” He said dramatically. “I’ve developed some taste for your service, ma’am…”
Ivy appeared in the open doorframe of the III’s room, and you met his gaze, smiling.
“Look who’s coming to visit!” You said to III, and he turned his head in the direction where Ivy stood, folding his arms under his chest, and casually leaning on the doorframe.
“Having fun here, guys?” He said, his eyes lazily travelling all around the room.
“Yeah, I showed SixVI “Fit for an Autopsy”.” III said proud of himself.
“SixVI? What kind of name is that even?” You wondered, but didn’t say a word.
“That’s a very good one.” Ivy nodded, smiling. “What’s your colour?”
“Green”. III said, and snorted, his legs flew up, nearly swapping you off your feet as he laughed. Ivy laughed too, holding his hand on his belly, eyes tearing up.
First you didn’t get the joke, but when you finally got it, you visibly and lethally blushed.
“You dorks…” You shook your head, a bright smile litting up your face. They laughed a little more, making silly faces to each other, booped each other’s noses, and Ivy left.
“Okay, III… Now sit for half an hour with it, and then go wash it. Later I’ll apply the toner.” You instructed.
“Sit? Phhhh, yeah, ov’ course, luv. I bettah go make ya a coffeh. Ya don't provide this service for free, right? So, at least, coffeh”. He winked and stood up, now towering you.
“Oh, wow, then… what should I get, if I help you to wash your hair later?” You asked, thinking of why the fuck you flirted with him. Something shifted in his eyes, but his usual mischief stayed present. He scratched his three-days scoff on his chin, thoughtfully.
“You desperately wanta’ stay my hairdressah, right?” He answered with a joke, despite something lingering in his eyes, something which made him really interested.
After a moment, he came back holding two cups of coffee, the smell of it filling the room with coziness. You both went to the bathroom, drinking coffee and chatting. The speaker was still blasting “Fit for an Autopsy”.
“Ya promised…” He shrugged, and bowed deep down, standing beside the bath. Like a giant stick bug. And a good boy.
“Yes, you were going to wash his hair.” You thought. “And you suggested it yourself!”
He was standing very patiently, almost not moving, letting the dye and shampoo stream sideways of his face and temples, while you carefully washed it out.
“Ya’ fingers feel so good there…” He said, suddenly. “So gentle…Luvley.”
You swallowed hard. And he snapped again: “You meet tha’ needs I didn’t know I had”. Your eyes widened, and you let out a quiet groan.
“Wha’? Thasstrue.” He insisted. You sipped coffee from a cup, standing on the edge of the bath, continuing fondling his hair through a hot water stream.
“You’re welcome…” You said in a strained voice, saying his real name.
Back in the room, he sat again, looking at you constantly while you applied the toner on his hair. It was purple, and he looked like wearing a winter hat.
“What would you want for a hair wash?” He asked, grinning. His eyes followed yours non-stop. Long lashes covering the blue depths were making him prettier. Shit. You decided to answer playfully.
“I wanna meet this Joe. Will you get us acquainted? He seems like a cool dude.”
“Oi, easier! Knowing ya… What if ya’ steal yourself anotha’ vocalist?” III grinned, but didn’t seem to be totally against the idea.
“Okay, then… Probably, a monthly subscription to your morning coffee. Not necessarily in bed.”
“Ya keep giving meh ideas…” He said, and it sounded like a warning.
“Come on, we need to wash away the toner.” You answered, changing the topic and went to the bathroom again. You repeated the washing ritual again; the purple toner was filling the drain making III’s hair much whiter than it was before. You were very satisfied with the result.
“Look how good and fresh you look now, III.” You said, watching him straighten his body and looking at himself in the bathroom mirror. He kept looking; drops of water streaming over his face, neck, getting under the hem of the T-shirt. He smiled at himself in the mirror happily, brushing his damp hair with fingers. Then he just turned to you, and you felt his wet hand or your forearm.
“Thank ya. Usualley, I'm a nagging buzzkill, who always complains about everythin’... But I felt so comfey with ya, you were very gentle and professional with meh.” His fingers slowly squeezed your forearm with a surprising strength. “Ta’ be fair… I don’ mind ta’ bring ya coffeh in bed once in a while…”
“Hh..Yeah, thank you, big guy.” You answered, feeling his fingers almost on your neck, as they travelled up higher. He took one strand of your hair, as if giving it a light squeeze, twirled a strand over his finger, looking at you thoughtfully.
“What did they see in ya?” He seemed to ask himself, looking in your eyes. “Is that tha’ same thing I see?” He said, dreamily, leaving you standing confused in the bathroom.
____________________________________
Another quiet evening you found Ivy, napping on the coach in the living room in front of TV. It was late, almost night, he fell asleep watching the true-crime documentary, an empty bottle of Corona beer in his hand. You approached, gently taking the bottle away and placing it on the coffee table. The urge to touch that heated body in his sleep was strong. It was almost irresistible. The couch wasn’t turned into a bed, so there was very little free space beside the guitarist; eventually it was meant for one person at a time.
You quietly stuck yourself between the back of the couch and sleeping man and hugged him from behind, getting under his blanket and pressing yourself harder to him, as if trying to merge your whole body into the heat of his. One of your arms slipped under his arm, lying on the side of his torso, and your palm landed on his chest. He stirred a bit, waking up. After a moment, he covered your hand on his chest with his big warm palm and realized it belonged to the only female in this house.
“Six…” He groaned with sleepiness and raspiness in his voice. “Finally…”
“This doesn’t mean anything, Ivy, I just came to cuddle.” You whispered.
“It does…” He answered back in a whisper too, and suddenly turned to face you. You felt like his arm wrapped around you, and legs intertwined with yours under blankets. There was almost no spare place, and you were squeezed there like mating snakes. His face was so close, almost impossible not to kiss.
“I’ve missed you, melon… So much.” You said, fighting with desire. Instead you kissed his little upturned nose, and the corner of his lopsided smile.
“Me too… I always do.” He said, impossibly honest. He came down a little, and his head landed in front of your chest; he inhaled you and pressed his face right between your breasts, where they were hidden by your T-shirt. You wrapped your palms and fingers around his warm head, holding him even closer, fondling his soft hair. You closed your eyes as if savouring this moment, as if you were finally holding a hard-won treasure. You felt somehow possessive even, imagining being a lynx in the cage, who was growling, when the keeper tried to take away your meal. You were lying like that for some time with a quiet sensation of his every breath on your chest.
“How did you end up dyeing III’s hair?” He asked suddenly, not even taking his face away from you, his voice muffled by the fabric of your clothing.
“I promised him long ago… It was just the right moment. Additionally, if you weren't going to talk to him, who else would?” He groaned with guilt at this, but pressed himself even tighter to you, as an apology of his style. You weren’t even surprised to feel his hardness against your thigh.
“Was he flirting with you?” He asked, instead of wondering about more serious things.
“Oh, he tried, of course… I can’t say I didn’t as well though.”
He growled, his strong hand grabbed your flesh under the hem of your T-shirt. You knew where it’s going, but this time you didn’t even object, you didn’t fight him or yourself, you were careless of someone seeing it. Ivy was hot as hell, his skin radiated heat and you were ready to be roasted. He lifted your T-shirt enough for his greedy mouth to reach for your hard nipples. You felt your own wetness in your panties, and his erection was too obvious not to have some thoughts of using this moment for good.
He was still sleepy, languishing, lazy… But impossibly horny. His teeth squeezed your nipple, tongue kept swirling its tip. Your body gave in to him, becoming squishable as jelly. After some days of cold, emptiness, spiralling in a quiet house, it felt like a burst of heat you desired so much. Ivy was uncompromisingly determined. His hand slipped under the waistband of your silky pajama shorts, diving immediately between your already slick folds, biting your nipple hard at the same time. Your one hand grabbed his hair on the nape of his neck, and he growled, as something feral woke up in him too, as well it did in you.
His fingers dove inside you: gentle, but firm. You immediately gave him space, hooking up your one leg over his hip, letting him go deeper, and faster. And he was fast. His eyes closed blissfully, he moaned, sweetly, not letting your nipple out of his mouth, and his fingers were faster and faster, rhythmically bringing you to your peak. You didn’t last long, for a reason of his very talented fingers, till you were shaking with your whole body against him, squeaking and moaning as quietly as you could, and peppering his head with kisses.
“My boy, my melon…” You were whispering sweet nothings and praises, living through your aftershock. But you felt that his fingers didn’t stop. Your lower lips were all wet in your slick, and his movements and fondling created sticky obscene little sounds under the blanket. He didn’t stop. His lips and tongue either. Caloused fingertips weren’t fucking into you now, they were just sliding all over your folds gently as feathers.
“Ivy…?” You asked.
“Mmm-hm?” He just hummed, not stopping his sucking. Down in your core, you were hypersensitive after your quick orgasm, but his lazy sweet movements were so comforting and seductive, as if the pleasure could be actually endless. And with each move it gradually became slower.
“Lemme just… It’s soothing to me…” He whispered. And he sucked further, teased your nipple, and his fingers slowly circled your sweet spots. He sighed deeply, pressing himself into you once more; one last circle of his tongue, one last twitch of his fingers. And in the next moment he was sound asleep, his mouth open, lips around your nipple, and hand between your legs.
The intimacy of this moment was immense… As if being hundred times more naked, if it was even possible. Was he even for real? What was this man? He fell asleep as a bloody bear cub, holding his pacifier in his mouth. Your heart was beating so hard, when you looked down at him, still holding his sleepy head. You were looking at a man with a childlike, serene face; his wrinkles around eyes smoothed out, his sensual plump lips were parted and gaping with your own flesh between them. Your eyes teared up, and for once you lifted your head up to peer at the stairs, in case someone was there. You weren't even able to move under your heavy lover, with your exposed breasts, one of which he possessively borrowed.
And poor you… Your eyes met with II’s, who was quietly descending the stairs, probably walking down to the kitchen for water or snacks.
“OH MY DEAR GOD… WHAT CAN BE MORE EMBARRASSING THAN BEING CAUGHT IN SUCH STATE…” Everything screamed in you.
But II was a man who was probably more experienced in love than you ever could be. And he, of course, saw everything… Your flushed, teared up face, your lifted up T-shirt, your widened shocked eyes and Ivy’s head on your sinfully naked chest. II just smirked, and pressed one finger to his lips, then imitated as if he zipped his mouth. You put all your hopes in that sign. You hoped that this moment would forever stay as your little secret. As well as… shared cigarette from time to time.
____________________________________
Vessel’s room was cloaked in that dim, golden half-light that came from the single lamp on his bedtime table, the one he never bothered to fix properly. It painted lazy shadows along the walls, catching on his bookshelf, the open sketchbook left forgotten on the armchair.
You laid against his chest, finally. The first time after a long week. His heartbeat felt unsteady beneath your cheek — not from exhaustion, but something heavier, secretive. You could feel it in the way his arm stayed around you a little too tightly, in the way he exhaled through his nose like he’d been holding his breath for days.
Rain pressed softly against the window, washing the city into a blur of silver lights. His fingers traced the edge of your jaw, slow and uncertain, as if relearning you.
After a while, you murmured into the silence, your voice barely breaking through his warmth. “Vessi?...What will you call it?”
He tilted his head slightly. “What?”
“That song,” you said. “The one for the new album. With that line — ‘clockwork beneath the permafrost’.”
His eyes met yours then — pale and unreadable in the low light. A faint, crooked smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Dangerous,” he said. “Why you ask?”
The word lingered between you, like smoke. His thumb brushed once against your lower lip, hesitant, testing the distance that had lived between you all the last days.
“Just dangerous? That’s probably my favourite…” You whispered, looking at him from beneath. “Since we last were in this bed all together, I felt like I was caught in time…”
“Uhmm… Not anymore?” He said, as if he was asking. Then, quiet and mischievous: “Well, d’you have any plans for the evening?”
“Why do you ask?” You hit his question back with a question.
“I thought you would want to… accompany me to watch a little performance.” Vessel said, looking at the ceiling, as if he was flying in clouds, dreamy and romantic. “I hope you don’t have any panties under your gown today?”
“W-what? N-no…” Your breath shook, you swallowed hard feeling the shifting and sexual tension.
“Then stand up and give me your hand… Ready?” He kindly instructed.
He led you downstairs.
“Vess, I don’t understand…” You whispered.
“Soon, you'll see… We’re going to the basement.”
“Are you kidnapping me?” You gave out a short dry laugh.
“Mhmm, exactly.”
You followed him, bare feet padding against the wooden stairs, the soft creak of each step echoing faintly in the narrow stairwell. The air grew a little cooler as you descended, carrying a trace of something rich and resinous — incense, smoke, and a faint metallic scent of old strings and cables.
The basement felt alive. Dim amber light pulsed from a few old lamps and scattered candles, throwing restless shadows along the walls. The scent of wax and warm dust mingled with the familiar smell of varnished wood and metal — instruments sleeping, waiting to be played.
As always, two doors stood ahead — one slightly open, humming faintly with the quiet of powered equipment. Their playroom. But this time, you stepped into the mixing room first. It was intimate, cluttered with life: tangled cables, picks, old drumsticks here and there, a half-finished cup of tea gone cold beside the monitor. One gaming chair. The tinted window between rooms took up nearly half the wall — a professional studio feature, except this one was darker, more secretive. From here, you could see into the playroom beyond, though the reflection kept you and Vessel hidden.
Candles flickered along the window ledge, framing the glass in a trembling halo of light. You felt Vessel’s hand rest lightly on the small of your back, guiding you closer until your reflection almost disappeared against the tint.
“Look,” he whispered. You leaned forward.
The playroom glowed with the same amber haze — a single low lamp illuminating the curve of a drum set, the gleam of guitar necks resting in their stands… and the small couch pressed against the wall.
And there — tangled in the flickering light, the rest of the band. II, III, and IV — half-lost in each other, in movements that were slow, half-naked, fevered, and shockingly intimate. Your breath caught. Vessel didn’t move beside you, didn’t even blink. You couldn’t tell if he was smiling, or if that stillness meant something else entirely.
“See?” He murmured, voice quiet and velvet-smooth. “A little performance.”